An Inn in Tirana
by Aerlinnn
Summary: Years after the war, Hermione Granger arrives to Albania in order to complete a piece of research. Though she doesn't like it, if she wants to travel through the mysterious country she will have to rely on Antonin Dolohov's help.
1. The Albanian Inn

It's been a long time, but I have finally managed to return to properly writing. Before starting, I'd like to apologize for leaving End Without Sorrow hanging for such a long amount of time. I hope I can return to it soon to at least close the ongoing arc where it was left hanging.

I'd like to thank you for reading this story, particularly given how long it has given since I last wrote properly. I have a lot of plans for things I'd like to write over the coming weeks, so rest assured this isn't the last you'll see of me.

This story was written for Silver Lioness in The Fairest of the Rare's Love Fest 2020 (#LF2020). Should there be an interest in seeing a continuation, I would be more than happy to write one out.

**_Edit #1:_**_ Given the response to the story, I have decided to go ahead and continue it. It likely won't be too long (with either one or two long 5-8k chapters more), but I'll be updating it as soon as I can._

* * *

A bell rung as Hermione pushed the inn's door open. She entered the establishment swiftly, right hand close to the wand held by the holster strapped to her forearm. Looking away from the witches and wizards crowding at the inn's door, she made her way through the crowd towards the bar at the front. Clenching the strap of her leather messenger bag, she took a seat on one of the few empty stools up front and readjusted it so it rested on her thighs.

It wasn't long before a bartender, a young wizard dressed in bright traditional robes, approached her. He was young—younger than her, by the look of it—and did a poor job of hiding the open disregard with which he looked at her muggle clothes as he addressed her in a thickly accented English.

"Gillywater, please."

The wizard nodded and walked to the other end of the bar. Picking up a bottle and a clean glass, he quickly returned and set them in front of her. Hermione glanced at the bottle he placed in front of her curiously. Its label was completely different from the familiar green dragon often depicted in the brands in England. Instead it depicted a red mermaid as she swam gently across a river, jumping above the painted water of the label upon touch.

She smiled. "Thank you."

The young wizard walked away, and Hermione was left alone in her seat, with only her messenger bag and the gillyweed for company. Opening the bottle carefully, she poured the transparent liquid into her glass and drank deeply, marvelling at the coolness of the drink. Slowly, she allowed herself to recline against the low back of the stool slightly and observe the disreputable-looking inn she had been told to meet her contact at.

It was old, probably as old as the Leaky Cauldron, though its decoration was as different as everything she had found so far in the different wizarding communities of Tirana. It was built almost entirely out of wood, with a patterned mosaic flooring expanding across its single large room. A plethora of tables were arranged throughout it, beyond the bar, all seemingly occupied by the strange assortment of traditionally dressed witches and wizards. A number of sconces hung upon the walls, their flames only managing to dimly illuminate the hall-like room. The majority of the light brightening the room, instead, came from the few windows at the inn's front. They were tall, spanning almost from the patterned floor to the roof, and allowed a clear view of the crowded street at the heart of the Albanian capital's wizarding community.

Sighing, Hermione glanced back at her messenger bag. It had been an odd affair, her arrival to the reclusive wizarding country; and one which her remaining friends back in England hadn't particularly liked even when she had mentioned her intention to travel to undertake her research. Yet, here she was. Pursuing her research in one of the same places Tom Marvolo Riddle had travelled to in his youth.

Hermione straightened her back at the thought, and drank again from the cool, tasteless drink. Ron hadn't liked it at all, as had his family—a reaction she was sure Harry would have likely mirrored, had he had the chance. Ginny had been all but outraged, much as she had been about a lot of things since the end of the war. Her parents, meanwhile…

A wave of something dull and poisonous rose to Hermione's throat, and she painfully swallowed it down. Her lips trembled, and she clenched her hand around the glass, taking a deep breath. Her parents didn't care, much as they had about anything concerning her after she had managed to fix their memories, three years after the war. Dimly noticing the bell at the inn's door ringing again, she looked down at her messenger bag again; the ever-present companion which had accompanied her through her decision to quit the Ministry and pursue a Mastery. Ever useful and present throughout the travels she had undertaken after her award of the title with its undetectable extension charm.

The empty stool at her side, suddenly pulled back, scraped loudly against the floor. Hermione's head snapped up. Her eyes widened as she saw the nearly forgotten visage of a man she hadn't seen since the year Voldemort had been in power.

She felt herself pale._ Antonin Dolohov_, she thought hysterically, _but how?_

Clenching her jaw, she reached for the wand at her forearm and brushed her fingers against the base of the crooked wand she had been forced to keep at the war's end. "You," she snarled, feeling her heartbeat start to pick up. He had almost killed her once, long ago, leaving her with a scar too large to ever ignore.

The Russian wizard clicked his tongue in disapproval and gestured at her nearly fully drawn wand. "That won't be necessary" he said, slowly taking a seat.

Hermione breathed in sharply, not moving her hand away from her wand. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"I believe," he said, enunciating slowly, "that I reached an agreement to meet a potential employer at this location."

Hermione huffed, and met a pair of cold, fathomless dark eyes. "You?"

The proud, broad man who stood before her was a far cry from the one she had faced years ago. Whereas he had then been curled and weakened from years spent in Azkaban, the way he held himself now belied only a quiet sense of power. His jaw, no longer sporting the unkept beard she could remember, instead presented a short, neat cut. Dark hair waved to his shoulders, with a few, shorter strands falling just short of his eyes. The crazed and ragged-looking Death Eater who had haunted her nightmares was no more, having seemingly been substituted by a man in thick travelling robes and dark dragon hide boots; his shirt, buttoned up to his collar, visibly more expensive than any of the clothes she herself owned.

Dolohov raised his eyebrows and looked at her pointedly, and Hermione felt herself flush with anger. "How would you know about that?" she muttered.

The Death Eater cut straight to the chase. "A week ago, a notice for a job was posted within a local newspaper," he said brusquely, voice low and gravely. "Said advertiser, upon being contacted, agreed to hold a meeting here to explain the terms and conditions of the job. This is correct, no?"

Hermione ran a hand through her hair. "What if it is? Why are you here?" she pressed. "I want nothing to do with you."

Dolohov lowered his eyebrows and leaned forwards, towards her. "Be that as it may. Are you or are you not the witch who posted the advert?" he growled, eastern European accent curling over the syllables as they cut through the space between them.

Swallowing, Hermione pursed her lips. There could have been many ways in which the dark wizard before her could have learnt about the advert she had posted in a local wizarding newspaper. Further, should he have been interested in pursuing, her access to the correspondence she had engaged in with the sole individual to have replied to her advert could have similarly been gained. Antonin Dolohov was certainly capable of a feat like that no matter her precautions, with their enmity and previous confrontations only providing a suitable motive for the monster of a man.

A few moments passed in silence. Hermione brought her hands to her jaw, pressing at her lips with her thumb as she considered what little information she had. It was true that a wizard with the expertise that the Death Eater sitting beside her could have easily accomplished all of that, but the way he had chosen to approach her—by answering to her advert via a hired owl—made it difficult to believe. Particularly given how he had entered the inn and chosen to sit beside her and engage in conversation.

Turning away from the man, Hermione rested her elbows on the wooden surface of the bar and pressed her fingers together, steepling them upwards. "How did you know I was the advertiser?" she asked, focusing intently on the wizard besides her. "This inn is fairly full."

Dolohov let out a short huff of air and leant backwards. Crossing his arms, he seemed ready to answer when the bartender from before approached them. The young man who had looked at her with open disregard pointedly avoided meeting the dark wizard's eyes as he muttered something in his native language. Clicking his teeth, Dolohov scowled made a sharp gestured with his head that made the bartender pale and nod, quickly walking away from the both of them.

Looking on, Hermione felt a sense of unease slowly rise to her chest. Biting her lip, she slowly reached for her wand again. "Well?" she asked.

Leaning his head to the side, he looked at her up and down. Feeling anxious, Hermione brushed the angry red letters carved on her forearm, visible even beneath the simple holster she often chose to wear. The corners of the Death Eater's lips quirked up mockingly, and his eyes zeroed on the area just beneath her collarbone, where the upper tip of the purple-tinged scar he had once given her was plainly visible.

A rush of anger coursed through her, and Hermione grounded her teeth. "How did you know I was the advertiser?" she demanded again. "I imagined a murderer like you would have wound up dead after the war."

His nostrils flared, and Hermione quietly observed his hands as he fisted them painfully. "Careful," he growled, his accent slightly thicker in his anger. "I have had no interest in chasing a Mudblood like you so far, but don't forget who I am."

"I know perfectly well who you are," she snarled back. "Why are you here?"

Dolohov's muscles tightened. Narrowing his eyes even further, he raised a single hand and waved it carelessly. Magic descended upon them before Hermione fully managed to process what he had done. Her hand darted to her wand, very nearly drawing it completely.

Leaning back, Dolohov exhaled carefully and seemed to force himself to calm down. "The Muffliato charm," he explained tersely. "We wouldn't want anyone overhearing us, would we?"

Hermione allowed herself to relax minutely. Putting her wand back into the strapped holster, she met the Russian wizard's eyes again and forced herself to nod. "Thank you."

The Death Eater raised a hand to his face and rubbed his beard contemplatively. "I happen to frequent this inn often enough to be able to tell who is a stranger or not," he finally said. Turning more fully towards her, he lowered his hand and leaned forwards, resting his arms on his thighs. "Beyond that," he said gruffly, meeting her eyes, "it is obvious that you are a foreigner."

"Aren't you one too?" she asked, frowning.

The corners of Dolohov's lips quirked up slightly. He shook his head, eyes not leaving hers. "Perhaps, though, given my origin, not as much," he said conversationally. "The culture of wizarding communities here is rather unique, as you may have already noticed."

Hermione exhaled and, finally, nodded. Though she hadn't been in Tirana for long, she had encountered more difficulties than she had in the few other countries she had travelled through already. Contacting the different witches and wizards she had sought out to push her research on had been difficult, enough to make her question whether she would be able to properly find the information she needed.

"I didn't expect the wizarding community here to be as closed as it is," she finally said.

"It's more prominent in the north," Dolohov said, smiling lopsidedly. "I believe your advert mentioned travelling there?"

"It did."

"What for?" he asked with a curious lilt to his voice. "It is a rare request."

Breathing in deeply, Hermione looked back at her messenger bag. "I presume you are interested in the job?" she asked, avoiding his question. "I need to confirm as much before giving away any more details than I already did."

The Death Eater raised his eyebrows. "I am," he said. "Why is irrelevant."

Hermione laced her fingers together and nodded once before opening the clasps of her messenger bag. Opening it, she started to look through its inside in search of one of the notebooks she always carried with her. Dolohov observed her with a muted interest, silently watching her rummage through the bag's contents. It didn't take long to find the hard exterior of one of a very particular muggle notebook, and she pulled it out with a gentle smile. Quickly offering the red casebound notebook to the foreign wizard.

"I have written inside many of the places and people I need to research and talk to within Albania," she explained. "I won't give details of what I am researching, but it involves regions located mainly within the Albanian Alps."

Dolohov took the notebook and opened it. He read through its pages quickly, turning the pages more frequently than she would have expected. "These are some very specific areas, far into the country," he stated, pointing at a specific list in the middle of a page. "Many aren't connected to a floo network or travel system of any sort. What are you researching?"

Hermione frowned. "Is that relevant?" she asked, looking at the dark wizard suspiciously. She hadn't planned to give away exactly what she was doing to anyone in her travels, and so far, had managed to avoid doing so. Sharing her research with the Death Eater who had tried to kill her, whether he was interested in the job she had offered or not, seemed counterintuitive.

He looked back up at her, sneering slightly. "If you want someone to act as a guide and bodyguard whilst travelling through the more reclusive wizarding communities in Albania, it is," he stated. "I am interested in the job, but travelling through the mountain ranges of the north without a clear sense of direction isn't something I am willing to do."

"If you find it that difficult, I can always hire someone else," she said bitingly, crossing her arms. "From what I understand there aren't that many dangers to be found, especially when compared to some of the things I have already seen."

Dolohov smiled mockingly. "If you wish to try your luck, I won't be the one to stop you." He raised his eyebrows and tapped on the notebook. "Though I don't think you'll manage to find anyone too willing to travel through the Valbona Pass and the towns in Theth with a foreign witch, much less to the Jezerca Peak."

Hermione glanced at the notebook in the Death Eater's hands. She was sure that she could eventually find someone else to hire, but the way in which she had only received a single reply to the advert she had posted had made her doubt her original plans. Taking much longer to hire someone to act as a guide and bodyguard would distract her away from her research too much and could potentially render some of what she had been able to find so far outdated.

Sighing, she looked back at Dolohov. "I am undertaking a certain piece of alchemical research," she explained succinctly. "I need to access certain information which can only be found amongst the communities I listed."

"I can't see how the north of Albania would be of interest. Is something related to the Ministry of Magic?" he pressed.

"Independent research. I have been awarded a Mastery in Alchemy, and haven't been affiliated with the Ministry since I quit around a year after the war."

The Russian wizard's eyes widened. "Who did you study under?" he asked, looking at her attentively. "There aren't very many alchemy masters left, and I can't think of many who would agree to teach others freely."

"Argo Pyrites," she quickly stated. She was sure that the man in front of her would know of him, if only due to his relation to one of Voldemort's Death Eaters rather than his volumes on alchemy. Convincing the old wizard to take her on, considering her affiliation to Albus Dumbledore throughout the war, had been a difficult endeavour.

The Death Eater smiled crookedly. Slowly, he raised his eyebrows and looked at her up and down again. He was impressed, that much was obvious, though she couldn't say she cared to know why. Sitting back silently, she pressed her lips together and awaited the wizard's final answer.

"Very well," Dolohov finally said. "I accept, subject to undertaking a vow."

Hermione crossed her arms. "Obviously," she spat, feeling disgust at the thought of having to undertake an unbreakable vow with the Death Eater. "Contract or no contract, I will never be able to trust someone like you."

Dolohov leant back and tilted his head again, the motion making some of the dark strands of hair fall over his eyes. "Exactly," he said laconically. "I assume what remains is only a matter of agreeing on payment?"

Sighing, Hermione pursed her lips and thought the offer through. That only someone like Dolohov had been the one to reply to her advert was unfortunate. She didn't trust the man at all, and would rather not have to see him again, but the fact that he was a known cursebreaker and charms master was an additional positive. If his company was the only thing that would allow her to get close to the _panacea_ she sought, then so be it. Once her research was done, what she did concerning his potential location was another topic in its entirety.

"Yes," she replied tersely. "That is all that remains."

Dolohov leant back and raised his head, meeting her eyes again. "Very well then, Miss Granger. I believe we may have found ourselves in agreement." The man's eyes remained fixed on her even as he moved to stand up, and Hermione felt oddly flattered at the unwavering attention of the terrible and formidable man. "I believe we still have some points to discuss, but I presume you would be available to meet once again tomorrow?"

Hermione swallowed and clenched the strap of her messenger bag. She nodded slowly, trying to ignore the mixing feelings of elation and disgust welling up in her chest. Flattening her lips, she kept her eyes fixed on his and quashed the temptation to reach for her wand. "Yes. Would this same place work?"

Dolohov's crooked smile grew and turned crueller. "It would."


	2. Travelling through Theth

**A/N: **It took a while, but here it is! I'm not fully sure about how long this story will be (I have enough plot for at least two more chapters, though knowing myself it could likely turn into three more). I'll aim to update this as soon as I can, but other commitments will likely get in the way of a speedy update. Having said that, chapter three won't be taking as long as this second one did.

Thank you for all the people that reviewed and showed an interest in this story! Your support meant a lot to me, particularly given how rare this pairing is. I hope you enjoy this new chapter.

* * *

The tiny ferry-like boat rocked as it reached the edge of the river's makeshift dock. Grasping its taffrail, Hermione looked on as the ferryman waved his wand and levitated two lengths of rope towards it, making the twisted pieces of fibre tie themselves around two wooden bollards on the mooring. Shouting something she couldn't understand, the ferryman gestured towards the few passengers the tiny ship had carried and jumped onto the dock. Hermione stood back as the few witches and wizards who had also boarded the ship rushed towards the dock in a hustle, seemingly anxious to leave the small, rocking thing. The plethora of traditional robes and dresses worn by the passengers, brightly coloured and markedly different from anything she had seen in England, making her feel out of place in the muggle clothes she had chosen to wear that morning.

It was only when the last of the passengers—a witch with a heavy-looking trunk levitating behind her—had left that Hermione readjusted the strap of her leather messenger bag and made to move out of the small ferry. Looking up at the landscape all around her as she disembarked.

It was a beautiful area. Tall mountains surrounded the wide, azure river, with jagged sides of limestone, dolomite, and marl looking up into the sky. Tall pines lined the sides of mountains dotted with patches of bare stone, with only the gentler slopes between them displaying fields tailored for farming. In the middle of the valley, atop a hill to the side of the river, sat a medieval town unlike anything Hermione had seen. Its houses, painted almost entirely in whites and yellows, were adorned with vividly coloured window shutters. The roofs crowning each building with tiles as grey as the sides of the steep mountains encasing the town.

The sound of a pair of footsteps broke Hermione out of her stupour. Clenching her fists at the reminder of her hired travel companion's presence, she turned around quickly, eyes narrowing at the increasingly familiar sight of her unlikely bodyguard. "What?" she asked brusquely.

The wizard in question gestured at the town just beyond the dock, sleeves of his thick travelling robes wrinkling with the motion. "Where to?" he asked, voice low and gravely.

"An inn," Hermione said. She didn't wait for a response. Instead, she began to walk across the dock, towards the stone walkway cut into the hill. Deliberately looking away from the Death Eater trailing after her.

Her eyes widened once she reached its top.

The town was even more impressive up close. Though its small size was apparent, its streets were visibly crowded. Wreaths and floral decorations hanged between the buildings and from the walls, with carved images and paintings decorating many of their doorways. In front of them, lined along the streets she could see from the riverfront, were a number of witches and wizards selling wares in makeshift wooden stands. Across some of the street's wider points, throughout their length, were a number of tall pyres set up in clear preparation for a festival.

Its size couldn't be much larger than Hogsmeade, but it was clear that this was the last biggest magical settlement before the Valbonna Pass and the Albanian Alps beyond.

Hermione began to walk through the street slowly, walking between the different groups of people filling it. Coming to a sudden stop at a side of the busy street, she allowed her shoulders to fall and her arms to hang loosely. They would be needing rooms for a few nights, but she had no idea where it'd be best to go.

Glancing back to look at the Death Eater, Hermione felt something dull and poisonous rise to a knot in her throat as she saw how he was clenching his jaw.

She pressed her lips together. _A contract_, she reminded herself, _I signed a contract with him, whether I like it or not_.

Turning around, she cautiously met the Death Eater's eyes. "Do you know of any place we could stay in? You said you travelled through this area once before."

Dolohov raised his eyebrows. He pursed his lips, seeming to think the question through before finally nodding. "I do," he said bluntly.

He walked past her and veered into a wide side street. Hermione followed him as he navigated the town by memory, entering alleyways without giving the barest of hints of misdirection. Only coming to a stop once they had reached a particularly old-looking building at the other end of the town, far from the river.

Hermione found herself frowning at the sight. Its exterior was quite worn by comparison to the other buildings around it. The street they were in didn't look particularly safe, either; not when compared to the wider ones they had been walking through before.

She glanced at Dolohov. "Have you been here before?"

The Death Eater looked at her listlessly. "Once."

A flicker of annoyance ran through Hermione. Huffing, she looked back at the inn. It would have to do. The _Verëza_—the traditional festival marking the end of the winter season—would be taking place soon, and the centric, better-looking inns would likely be filled up to capacity. She wasn't a stranger to warding, in any case; not after what Harry, Ron, and her had gone through during the war, and that was without considering the experience the man besides her had.

Hermione looked back at him. He was still looking at her, posture tense as he awaited her confirmation. She breathed in deeply. "Very well—though I will also be warding my room."

He smirked. "Of course."

A bell rang as he opened the door, and Hermione followed after him. The place's interior was as worn as its exterior, if not more, with what furniture was to be found in the crumbling reception room looking noticeably old. The telltale ozone-like scent of old, lingering magic giving away both the establishment's age and the types of customers it attracted.

It didn't take long for an old man to enter the reception. Dolohov strode towards him quickly; dragon hide boots clacking on the orange terracotta tiles of the floor. Not bothering to wait for the old wizard to properly address him, he spoke in quick, hushed Russian. Grunting in assent when the man, looking at her witheringly, muttered something back.

Dolohov thanked the man before turning to look back at her. "He has two rooms—there should be no problems."

Hermione nodded tersely. "Will he take us there now?"

Dolohov translated her question. The old man glanced at her before nodding and walking up a set up stairs, only stopping when he reached two doorways at the end of the hallway. Commenting something to Dolohov pointedly, he handed him two sets of keys and turned to leave.

"They're the same size—unbooked for the week," Dolohov explained.

Hermione nodded. A week would be more than enough time for her to get the information she needed, and should more time be needed they could always go to another inn. "Payment?" she asked, looking at the stairway behind them.

"At the end. Seven Galleons a night."

"Alright," she said. It was on the expensive side, though perhaps it was unavoidable given the _Verëza_. "What room will you take?"

He glanced to the door at his left. "The outer room," he said seriously, handing her one of the two sets of keys. "You take the inner one."

She nodded again. It would be no different from how they had divided the rooms in some of the other places they had stayed at. He would take the most exposed side and ward the area they occupied, allowing her to stay in the more defensible position. Death Eater or not, Dolohov had so far stuck to the very letter of their agreement.

"I will unpack quickly, there is a place I want to check before night sets in," she said. "I assume that'll be alright?"

Dolohov tilted his head. The corners of his lips quirked up mockingly. "However you wish, Miss Granger."

Huffing, Hermione turned around and unlocked the door. Shutting it behind her, she glanced at the room she'd be living in for however long she'd be in the magical settlement. Though on the smaller side, it was open and clean, and contained a bathroom only barely visible from the doorway. Its two medium-sized windows offered a few of an inner courtyard decorated with plants and a few, old metallic tables.

Drawing her crooked wand from her holster, she began to carefully layer the long series of wards she had gotten used to casting throughout her travels. Only coming to a stop once the very air of the room was very nearly humming with her own magic. It was a needless precaution given how Dolohov had been taking care of warding the areas where they stayed at, but she didn't trust the Death Eater enough to not protect herself in some way. Even if the fact that he was a known cursebreaker rendered most of them inefficient at best.

Once she was satisfied, Hermione dropped her bag atop the bed and began to rummage through its insides. Taking out her notebook, she flicked through its pages until she found the entry she had been looking for. The location of the specialised library within the town wasn't something that had been easy to discover, much like the identity of the man who owned it. Still—she had managed to learn of it some time ago, and a visit to the place would be required if she wanted to discover the location of a particular alchemy master and consult a set of volumes.

The thought made Hermione smile. There were still weeks of travel ahead of her, and, most likely, a complicated and lengthy set of experiments to test her theories; but she was close. Closer than she ever had been before. She'd be able to return to England, then; perhaps for her experiments, even, if the conditions were right.

"Harry," she said to herself, voice barely above a whisper. "Think of Harry."

Hermione put her notebook back into her messenger bag and turned to leave the room. She wouldn't unpack for now; she didn't need to, not with her bag, and she could always do so later. It was more important to reach the library before the night fell and festivities started.

Keeping her resolve in mind, Hermione knocked in Dolohov's door. Startling as he opened it abruptly, she forced herself to meet his dark eyes.

He had changed his clothes. Gone were the thick travelling robes he had worn on their journey throughout the river. Instead, he was now wearing a set of dark robes visibly tailored for the sort of activities and movements which only duelling required. His dragon hide boots, the same slightly scuffed pair he had worn upon their first meeting, betraying the pragmatic intentions behind his attire.

Though presumably wealthy, Antonin Dolohov was a completely different type of Wizard than most of the Purebloods she had known at Hogwarts.

"Are you ready to leave?" she asked.

The Russian man lowered his head as he examined her, causing a few tendrils of hair to fall just short of his eyes. "Are you sure you want to keep wearing those Muggle clothes?"

Hermione clenched her jaw. "What if I do?" she asked. "Is it a problem?"

"Here?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. He smiled crookedly, the unspoken mocking intention behind his words obvious. "It does, though less if I'm with you." He looked away. "I have warded the area around the two rooms—no one should be able to either enter or come close."

Hermione flushed slightly with anger. She refused to dignify his comment with an answer. "Good," she said hardly, "let's leave then."

Dolohov huffed, amused, and followed her as she stalked down the stairs. Not glancing twice at the reception, she walked out and attempted to make her way through the alleyways he had navigated by memory so easily.

It didn't take long for her travelling companion to ask where she wanted to go exactly. "Where do you want to go?"

A quick glance revealed the earnest intentions underlying his question. "A library. It's quite small, from what I know. It caters only to alchemy."

He frowned and looked down, in thought. "There are several libraries in this town, two focused on alchemy" he said. "Do you know where it is exactly?"

"I think it should be somewhere along the riverfront," Hermione said. Her mentor had mentioned as much, years ago. The library's collection was apparently small and specialised, barely containing information about any topic beyond alchemy, but it was one of the best archives in this part of Europe. It wasn't the books she was seeking, though; not exactly. "I need to talk with the wizard who runs it."

"I think I know of the place," Dolohov said. A clear glint of curiosity entered his eyes. "It's not well known—was the Egyptian Centre for Alchemical Studies insufficient?"

Hermione shook his head. "If it had been, I wouldn't be here," she said tersely. "Can we go now? I don't want to waste time."

The Death Eater smiled crookedly. "Of course."

He set off through the streets with the same quick, light pace he had used before. The confident way with which he navigated through the plethora of alleyways and side streets revealing once again the degree to which he was used to the town. It was more crowded than they had been before. A multitude of people had begun to cluster around the different unlit pyres set up throughout the street.

_He really has been here before_, Hermione thought. He had to have been, given how at ease he seemed to be.

It was past midday by the time they reached the library. Hidden from view within a cul-de-sac right by the riverfront, it was located within a building painted in a stark white. Its door, carved out of a single piece of oak, displaying a mixture of inscriptions, runes, and archaic depictions of sphinxes.

Pushing it open, Hermione was left stunned at its elaborate interior. Dark terracotta tiles sprawled across the small atrium's floor, their edges displaying some of the same inscriptions as the building's door. The walls, as white as the exterior, were interspersed with a number of blue and red mosaic-like decorations, the most ornate of which enwrapped the single, open archway at the room's opposite end. The air, though not too charged, hummed with the heavy sort of magic that only centuries' worth of warding could provide.

Feeling breathless, Hermione walked up a wide reception-like desk by the library's doorway. Dolohov followed behind her, observing their surroundings with a silence that betrayed a certain weariness.

It didn't take long for a witch to approach them. "What do you want?" she asked curtly.

Hermione looked at her. The grey-haired woman was looking at her suspiciously, eyes narrowing on her muggle clothes. "I wanted to speak with Libatius Borage, if he's in at the moment," she said.

The woman sneered openly. "Mr Borage?" she asked. "I'm not quite sure he's available for any meetings today."

Annoyance flared within her. "Tomorrow, perhaps?" Hermione pressed. "It's quite urgent."

The witch crossed her arms. Frowning, she seemed to be visibly ready to repeat her earlier words when Dolohov stepped forwards. Her contour changed in an instant, her face paling visibly. "Mr Dolohov," she faltered. "This is quite a surprise, what do you require?"

"Libatius Borage," he said lowly. "Miss Granger wishes to speak with him."

The woman opened and closed her mouth, visibly hesitating before finally nodding. "Of course, I'll see what I can do. If you could wait at the reading room down the hall, he'll be there in a few minutes." Her eyes met Hermione's again. "I will warn you that he doesn't take students—hasn't for a long time."

"I'm not looking to study under him," Hermione said in a clipped tone. "I was awarded a Mastery under the supervision of Argo Pyrites."

The witch's countenance softened slightly. Nodding again, she turned and walked away. Hermione clenched her fists at the sight. Names. Even now, after everything, it always came down to names. Names and attire.

Her travel companion was looking at her by the time she glanced away from the retreating woman. Against all of her expectations, he remained silent; his serious expression lacking anything that could be constituted as mockery.

"She knew you," Hermione stated.

A slight, cruel smile grew on the edges of his lips. His eyes, however, remained closed. "My reputation is well-known in certain circles," he explained dispassionately.

Hermione nodded. She didn't like any of what he had done to earn said reputation, but it couldn't be an easy fact to live with. The reputation she and Ron had gained after the war was difficult to cope with even at the best of times. "Let's go to the reception room," she said.

Not waiting for a reply, she began to walk down the hallway. Entering the only open doorway, she quickly found herself within the room the witch had pointed her to. Decorated similarly to the small atrium, it was surrounded by bookcases which stopped only at its tall windows. The books within them, all focused on alchemy, encompassing the largest collection on the topic she had seen since Egypt's Centre of Alchemical Studies and her mentor's own personal library. Beyond that, the room didn't have many other pieces of furniture, and only featured a long, rectangular table at its centre.

She gazed at the titles dazedly. Walking towards one slowly, she barely resisted the urge to run her fingers down one the spines and pick it up. "Aristotle's _Secretum Secretorum_—modern translation—and Paracelsus' Collected Hermetic and Alchemical Writings," she mumbled. "The collection must be big if these are here."

"You've studied them," Dolohov said, curiosity underlying the statement.

Hermione's eyes flicked back to the Death Eater. She'd lose nothing by answering. "I have," she said, "though only the originals, not modern discussions about them. Argo was quite adamant on it."

His eyes glistened with amusement. "I imagine he was," he said simply. He paused and focused on her for a few, brief moments before speaking again. "Why alchemy?" he asked. "I imagine a witch like you would have had a lot of offers after the war. What pushed you to Argo Pyrites over your Ministry?"

"There was nothing left for me in the Ministry," Hermione said harshly. Her jaw clenched. There hadn't been; not really, no matter what Kingsley and Ron had tried to argue. There had barely been anything without Harry there to help to guide the process. Not even in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. "How do you know Argo? He made sure to stay away from Voldemort."

Dolohov didn't flinch at the sound of the name. "There are few people who don't," he said, waving his hand. He approached one of the bookshelves and gestured at one of the tomes. "The Dark Lord was fond of his analysis of Zosimos of Panopolis' works."

Hermione's nostrils flared. "I can't see why, if he refused to aid him. Besides—wasn't Zosimos a half-blood? Must have hardly been to his taste."

"Don't speak of what you don't know," Dolohov said, eyes narrowing. "The Dark Lord was different before the First War's end."

"Voldemort was a monster," Hermione hissed. "A tyrant and a lunatic. He—."

A loud knock reverberated throughout the reading room. "Enough," an old wizard exclaimed as he entered the room. "I thought there was someone who wished to see me."

Hermione recognised him instantly. It was hard not to, after the years she had spent studying under Argo Pyrites. Though they had hardly had a good relationship, her teacher hadn't denied the importance of the other man's discoveries. "I'm sorry, Mr Borage," she said quickly, eying the white-haired man. "I—."

The wizard waved his hand. "Irrelevant. Just make sure to keep quiet and avoid the mention of such affairs here," he said brusquely. He stopped besides the table and eyed venomously Dolohov. "Are you travelling with him?" he asked.

"Yes. He's my guide and bodyguard."

"Well, if you want me to talk with you, he'll have to leave," Libatius said. "He's a traitor. An animal—barely human. He has no place here."

Hermione swallowed and looked at Dolohov. He seemed to be deceptively at ease, but the strained way in which he held himself, hand raised just so in case drawing his wand became necessary, betrayed his real thoughts. She didn't like it, hadn't even when undertaking the vow, but there was nothing she could do.

"We undertook a vow," she said seriously. "Where I go, he goes."

Libatius scoffed. "A vow," he said, shaking his head. "I've heard about you—Miss Hermione Granger, one of the lucky few to catch Albus Dumbledore's eye. A Master of Alchemy, awarded with the support and commendation of one Argo Pyrites," he said, taking a seat at the rectangular table. "I will ignore it this time, but I don't want to see you again. Why have you come here?"

Hermione sat down in the chair in front of his. Dolohov turned around and walked away from the table, instead choosing to lean against one of the bookshelves to the side. "I am undertaking some independent research," she said. "I know that you are personally familiar with someone who has studied the same topic I've been researching—Cyrille Beaufort. He lives in Albania, but I don't know where exactly."

"Cyrille?" He tilted his head to the side. "Yes, I do know him. His research is unorthodox, but of good quality; even if he's altogether too fond of the more archaic forms of magic," he said. "What is it that you research?"

"Something resembling healing."

"Healing?" Libatius repeated. "What do you seek to find exactly? It must be rare, if you have chosen to travel to this place. If you are interested in Cyrille."

"A panacea," Hermione said reluctantly. "A friend of mine has been unresponsive to treatments so far. I am the only one certain that his condition can be cured."

"A panacea, is it?" the man said, leaning forwards. "What condition does he suffer, that you wish to consult an alchemist who is a known expert of soul magic?"

Her eyes flicked to Dolohov. She pressed her lips together. He knew. He had to—everyone did. Still, she didn't want to divulge any unnecessary details, not if she could avoid it. It was too dangerous. "I am not at liberty to say, but his condition is not normal," she said. "He encountered death twice yet remained alive—if barely. I want to help awaken him."

Libatius nodded. "Perhaps Cyrille can help you, if your research is as you say." He looked away, and, avoiding his gaze, looked through one of the windows. "You realise this research could easily be rendered illegal in the country you come from?"

"I do," Hermione affirmed. "It doesn't matter. I owe him my life."

"You are such certainty in your own beliefs—I envy you." He looked back at her. "What makes you think your conception of reality matches what we can see? That you are looking at the real instead of a simple map?"

"A map?"

"Perhaps it is as the quote goes, Miss Granger—it is the real, and not the map, whose vestiges persist here and there in the deserts that are no longer those of the Empire, but ours: The desert of the real itself."

Hermione's eyes widened. "Jean Baudrillard," she said, surprised. "I can't say that I agree."

"Yet, despite it, you cannot offer any arguments to counter his claim." The man smiled crookedly. "Your aims could be a mere mirage—many are, as Argo Pyrites ought to have known."

"A mirage?" she asked, bewildered. "I only want to help him. I know I can, provided I do so with the correct methods. It is only a matter of time."

"Even so. Why should I aid you or this friend of yours, who also caught Albus Dumbledore's eye?" he spat. "Enough damage has been done to our world as it is."

"Damage?" she asked. She stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the tiled floor. "He—."

Libatius raised his arm, as if to silence her. Before he could add a word, however, Dolohov had pushed himself off the bookcase and begun to approach him. "Borage," he said, voice low and throaty. "You know why we're here. You also know who I am." Drawing his wand, he pointed it at the other man. "Cyrille Beaufort—where is he?"

Swallowing loudly, the man opened and closed his mouth. Visibly intimidated, he raised his hands and pushed back his seat. "There's no need for threats. It was a question—a mere question," he stammered. "I wanted no part in the political squabbles of Wizarding Britain then, and neither do I now. You know this. Aiding the Boy Who Lived would be misinterpreted."

"How dare you," Hermione said accusingly. Her eyes narrowed. She didn't like the fact Dolohov had to threaten the man before he was willing to take her seriously, but she liked his comments even less. "Tell me where he is and we'll go."

"Yes, yes," Libatius said. sighing. "I do not where exactly he lives in—he is reclusive. His home is heavily warded and completely disconnected from any floo network I know of. Would arranging for a meeting be satisfactory?"

Hermione exhaled slowly. "It would," she said, allowing herself to relax. "Thank you. When will you know the details?"

Libatius looked away. Raising his hand, he pressed his index against his lips, as if in thought. "I'll communicate it to you as soon as it has been arranged," he finally said. "Can I reach you by owl?"

"Yes. We'll be staying within this town for a few days," Hermione said. "I do wish to consult the collection here, if possible, too. Can I do this?"

"Of course," he said. He stood up and smiled stiffly. "If this is all, I have work to get back to."

"Yes, thank you." She glanced back at Dolohov. "We'll be leaving now. It's getting quite late."

"That it is, Miss Granger."

With one last yearning glance at the tomes lining the walls, Hermione left out of the room. Almost absentmindedly, she followed the foreign wizard walking ever so slightly in front of her, her mind cycling through Borage's strange attitude as they exited the library and began to walk through the riverfront.

"Thank you," she said grudgingly. Her eyes darted to a pyre near the corner of a yellow house, now lit and surrounded by a multitude of wizards and witches. Its flames licked high up into the sky, illuminating its surroundings with the multitude of colours shining from within. "I don't think he'd have agreed to give up the location to me alone."

She knew that he wouldn't have. The man had been too ill-disposed towards her; perhaps owing to her affiliation to Albus Dumbledore, much like Argo Pyrites had once been. It had only been Dolohov's direct threat that had made the man change his mind—though he clearly hadn't liked him, either.

_A traitor_, she thought. _He accused him of being a traitor and an animal_.

"We undertook a vow," Dolohov stated.

Hermione bit her lip. "Still," she said. "I can't say that I like you, not after everything that you've done in the past, but I haven't been behaving correctly these last weeks. Unrepentant Death Eater or not, you helped me back there. I—."

Dolohov's eyes flicked to hers briefly. "So?" he asked, interrupting her.

Hermione mutedly looked at him, expecting the Russian wizard to say something more. Instead, a flicker of a thin, crooked smile grew on his lips, disappearing just as quickly as it had come. By the time he spoke again his posture had relaxed somewhat, though his hands remained close to his wand.

"Everyone assumes the Boy Who Lived has been dead for years. I presume they're wrong?"

"They are," Hermione spat. Almost everyone was—very few people had been willing to believe her at all. Only Ginny, Ron, Luna, and Neville had been there from the start. "It's not a curse—it's not that simple—but he's alive. Has been, all this time."

Dolohov's smile twisted. "Ah," he said, as if finally understanding. "That's quite a conundrum. Are you sure alchemy can help? Why not attempt something with charms or cursebreaking?"

She ignored his question. "Why did you agree to help me?" she demanded. "Job or not, payment or not, you must have known what I was after. Why help when he was the one to kill Voldemort?"

"I had my suspicions," Dolohov confirmed, waving a hand dismissively. "As for that, it hasn't got any bearing on my current life."

"No bearing?" Hermione echoed. "Why?" she asked. "You served him for years. You even tried to kill me twice."

Dolohov's eyebrows rose. Clearly amused, he looked at the area in her collarbone where the upper tip of the purple-tinged scar had been visible in Tirana. "None at all."

She huffed and looked away. Trying to avoid lashing out in anger at his obvious amusement, she focused on another of the pyres. Though still unlit, the wizards surrounding this one seemed to be reading to set it alight. Their expressions, joyous and open, hinting at the purpose of the tradition.

"It's an ancient celebration of the sun, more typical to Eastern European magical communities than Western ones," Dolohov explained, as if sensing the direction of her thoughts. "Magical bonfires are lit to drive the darkness of winter away."

It didn't take long for curiosity to get the better of her. "Have you ever celebrated it?" she asked. His words made it sound like he had, though she didn't fully know where the Russian man had grown up.

"Once," he said lowly. He paused and breathed in, clearly thinking about how much to tell her. "Years ago, with my mother."

Hermione nodded. She had heard the story through Sirius, years back, but she didn't know the details. The woman had died at some point at the onset of the First Wizarding War, years before the man before her had graduated and become a Death Eater.

"It must have been beautiful," she finally chose to say. It didn't seem necessarily dark, and though the tradition was foreign, she could easily imagine the marvel her parents would have felt at the myriad of coloured flames lighting the streets.

Meeting her eyes only briefly, Dolohov remained silent. Beyond them, the wizards lit the wooden pyre, sending blue, green, and red flickers of fire up into the sky.


End file.
